Correction: We are the GODS of Kareoke
10/7
Jeff, Brett, Nate, Dave, half the UNL theatre department and I all take some time Thursday evening to make good and damn sure that the patrons and staff of Randy's Grill & Chill know exactly how much we friggin' rule.
First of all, we roll in like we own the place. We bring the expanded crew. At least 15-20 of us show up, so about every 5 minutes we're pulling a table and chairs from some other part of the bar to accommodate our ever-expanding party. Being a bunch of theatre people (and one ex-theatre person...*tear*), we are not shy about doing this. Immediately everyone in the bar is looking at us like "Who the hell are these guys?" Not only because we're pulling tables and chairs to wherever the hell we want them, but because we're hands down the most energetic people in the place. I would try to explain some of the things that Brett, Nate, Jeff, Becca the stage crew girl, and sometimes myself stand up and do during various songs, but you really just have to witness this shit to understand and appreciate it.
We all arrive between 10:30 and 11:15. None of us sing until about 12:15, but when it starts, oh does it roll. Nate does Quiet Riot again, and it once again is everything we hoped it could be, and more. He starts too high again, but still rocks. He finds the key again, and rocks harder. He takes his overshirt off and gives the mic stand a good humpin', kicking it up a notch from last week. Following that, Jeff busts out "Calling Baton Rouge" for our listening enjoyment, and makes a point to sit down and sing to some closet homosexual who warned Jeff not to sing to him. Don't warn Jeff not to do something, it's basically the same as begging him to do it. The guy tries not to act embarrassed, but you can tell he's basically attempting not to be outed in front of the whole bar. After that, Brett gets up and performs his rendition of "I Believe in a Thing Called Love" by The Darkness. This is another mandatory spectacle for those unfamiliar with our kareoke crew. I couldn't begin to describe this phenomenon, but sufficed to say that he gets up there and cranks his "rock" valve wide open. Everyone in the bar ends up doused with rockin'.
Also, this week Jesse and Brittney are with us, and they perform a little Chicago (the musical, not the band) for the people with "All That Jazz". It's pretty hot. Several other people perform between the girls and me. Immediately before me, some girl sings "My Immortal" by Evanescence. Thanks, chick. Get the bar as mellowed out as you possibly can before I perform. Maybe you'd like to slip them some rufies while you're at it. So here's what I'm up against: I am our last of the crew to perform, and am one of the last singers of the night. By now people expect great things from us, and I'm batting cleanup with the bases loaded. Not only that, but this chick just lulabyed everyone, so I'm pretty much looking at 2 strikes and 2 outs. The pressure is really on, but on this night of nights, I am the Joe Montana of kareoke. (Yeah, I just switched sports with my metaphor. You're a bright kid, you can follow.) I don't even sweat the pressure, and with a little help from my teammates, I know I can lead the comeback drive that will culminate in sweet, sweet victory. How do I know? I'm performing Styx, and Nate has promised to dance for me.
It comes my turn, and our crew goes wild. Nate and I step up and take our places. As the intro begins, the whole bar learns what they're in for...that's right, it's Mr. Roboto, and Nate is the robot. It gets better...as the song gets rolling, Brett comes up and he and Nate act out a robot/creator scenario in front of me as I bust out the Styx with my drunk high range. I do a crappy pop 'n lock robot in the background as I sing. Somehow I keep from cracking the fuck up as Nate and Brett act out the scene, but the rest of the bar is laughing out loud. The best is that Brett keeps pressing Nate's "off" button and shutting him down to make adjustments on his robot. We're all nicely buzzed, but the timing and implied communication are somehow all flawless. Nate and Brett are hilarious, my range is somehow greatly expanded (thanks, alcohol!), and everyone in the bar is entranced. They're loving every moment, and by the time we finish, our crew's victory is complete. Everyone now understands why we acted like we own the place: We fucking do. The applause is vigorous, and we collect numerous high fives and accolades from total strangers on our way back to our table. I can feel my ego expanding and flourishing with every comment, every clap, every approving nod.
When we get back to our table, is the praise done flowing? Oh no, no it's not. Here comes the waitress, and she's got a tray full of shots, on the house. There is a shot for every member of our group: still at least 15 strong at this point. We toast to rockin' (or supremacy or...something...I've been drinking) and take our shots. They taste exactly like something, but what? Is it victory? Hmm, could be, but no. I've got it! These things taste exactly like an orange creme saver. This shot strikes me as something that would cost a lot to order if I were to pay for it. This ain't well shit. Must be Bailey's and something else, which means that basically the owner just bought us a whole bottle of Bailey's. At this point I realize that we're not the kings of kareoke like I said in the journal last week. We are the GODS of kareoke, and the rest of the people at that bar were put there to worship us.
Jeff, Brett, Nate, Dave, half the UNL theatre department and I all take some time Thursday evening to make good and damn sure that the patrons and staff of Randy's Grill & Chill know exactly how much we friggin' rule.
First of all, we roll in like we own the place. We bring the expanded crew. At least 15-20 of us show up, so about every 5 minutes we're pulling a table and chairs from some other part of the bar to accommodate our ever-expanding party. Being a bunch of theatre people (and one ex-theatre person...*tear*), we are not shy about doing this. Immediately everyone in the bar is looking at us like "Who the hell are these guys?" Not only because we're pulling tables and chairs to wherever the hell we want them, but because we're hands down the most energetic people in the place. I would try to explain some of the things that Brett, Nate, Jeff, Becca the stage crew girl, and sometimes myself stand up and do during various songs, but you really just have to witness this shit to understand and appreciate it.
We all arrive between 10:30 and 11:15. None of us sing until about 12:15, but when it starts, oh does it roll. Nate does Quiet Riot again, and it once again is everything we hoped it could be, and more. He starts too high again, but still rocks. He finds the key again, and rocks harder. He takes his overshirt off and gives the mic stand a good humpin', kicking it up a notch from last week. Following that, Jeff busts out "Calling Baton Rouge" for our listening enjoyment, and makes a point to sit down and sing to some closet homosexual who warned Jeff not to sing to him. Don't warn Jeff not to do something, it's basically the same as begging him to do it. The guy tries not to act embarrassed, but you can tell he's basically attempting not to be outed in front of the whole bar. After that, Brett gets up and performs his rendition of "I Believe in a Thing Called Love" by The Darkness. This is another mandatory spectacle for those unfamiliar with our kareoke crew. I couldn't begin to describe this phenomenon, but sufficed to say that he gets up there and cranks his "rock" valve wide open. Everyone in the bar ends up doused with rockin'.
Also, this week Jesse and Brittney are with us, and they perform a little Chicago (the musical, not the band) for the people with "All That Jazz". It's pretty hot. Several other people perform between the girls and me. Immediately before me, some girl sings "My Immortal" by Evanescence. Thanks, chick. Get the bar as mellowed out as you possibly can before I perform. Maybe you'd like to slip them some rufies while you're at it. So here's what I'm up against: I am our last of the crew to perform, and am one of the last singers of the night. By now people expect great things from us, and I'm batting cleanup with the bases loaded. Not only that, but this chick just lulabyed everyone, so I'm pretty much looking at 2 strikes and 2 outs. The pressure is really on, but on this night of nights, I am the Joe Montana of kareoke. (Yeah, I just switched sports with my metaphor. You're a bright kid, you can follow.) I don't even sweat the pressure, and with a little help from my teammates, I know I can lead the comeback drive that will culminate in sweet, sweet victory. How do I know? I'm performing Styx, and Nate has promised to dance for me.
It comes my turn, and our crew goes wild. Nate and I step up and take our places. As the intro begins, the whole bar learns what they're in for...that's right, it's Mr. Roboto, and Nate is the robot. It gets better...as the song gets rolling, Brett comes up and he and Nate act out a robot/creator scenario in front of me as I bust out the Styx with my drunk high range. I do a crappy pop 'n lock robot in the background as I sing. Somehow I keep from cracking the fuck up as Nate and Brett act out the scene, but the rest of the bar is laughing out loud. The best is that Brett keeps pressing Nate's "off" button and shutting him down to make adjustments on his robot. We're all nicely buzzed, but the timing and implied communication are somehow all flawless. Nate and Brett are hilarious, my range is somehow greatly expanded (thanks, alcohol!), and everyone in the bar is entranced. They're loving every moment, and by the time we finish, our crew's victory is complete. Everyone now understands why we acted like we own the place: We fucking do. The applause is vigorous, and we collect numerous high fives and accolades from total strangers on our way back to our table. I can feel my ego expanding and flourishing with every comment, every clap, every approving nod.
When we get back to our table, is the praise done flowing? Oh no, no it's not. Here comes the waitress, and she's got a tray full of shots, on the house. There is a shot for every member of our group: still at least 15 strong at this point. We toast to rockin' (or supremacy or...something...I've been drinking) and take our shots. They taste exactly like something, but what? Is it victory? Hmm, could be, but no. I've got it! These things taste exactly like an orange creme saver. This shot strikes me as something that would cost a lot to order if I were to pay for it. This ain't well shit. Must be Bailey's and something else, which means that basically the owner just bought us a whole bottle of Bailey's. At this point I realize that we're not the kings of kareoke like I said in the journal last week. We are the GODS of kareoke, and the rest of the people at that bar were put there to worship us.
posted by Beav at 6:30 PM
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